


Analogia

by psalloacappella



Series: Equilibrium [11]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Brainy Adorables, Conspiracy, Dissociation, Everyone is obsessed with team 7, Friendship, Lies, Minor Nara Shikamaru/Temari, Multi, Post-War, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 12:09:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20638943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psalloacappella/pseuds/psalloacappella
Summary: Sakura thinks it’s related to the game, but Shikamaru slips the cigarette into a front pocket on his flak jacket and leans on his elbow. Inhales quickly, a breath caught. Then a long, smooth exhale. “Feelings confuse me.”With the ghost of a smile, her gaze resuming the sweep of the board in search of an opening, she says, “It’s probably one of the few things that does.”





	Analogia

**Author's Note:**

> In my world, these brainy adorables should be great friends. Blurry friendship lines if you squint.

_Click._

A tiny crease folds itself above her eyebrow, a miniscule divot, as if someone sketching a portrait etched it in with a quick flourish. Subtle and quick, barely noticeable. Nothing else in the room moves; even the bends of sunlight seem entombed, faint particles of dust suspended. 

Across the table, long fingers gently roll an unlit cigarette between them, something to do, a pretense of idleness. There’s no rush to the game, and this habit of meeting and thinking is a mutual benefit. It began a long time ago and hasn’t stopped, now embedded in their history of work and friendship, a signpost, a constant in the chaos experienced in the daily job. It’s simple inertia, but all humans cling to the familiar. 

While the game can be short if desired, it always seems to come to a close at just the right moment for both of them. The frequency waxes and wanes but always persists, and provides a welcome respite and space for their thoughts to take up space alongside one another. Both have plenty to muse on.

_Clack._

Leaning forward with the slightest grimace, Shikamaru groans. “Ugh, that move actually wasn’t so bad.”

Sakura’s eyes roll up to the ceiling, not quite unlike Ino’s. “How convincing.” It’s irrelevant since she very rarely manages to win. She’s not sure if he’s continually let her persist this round, if the past wins have all been bones thrown, or if she poses any true threat at all, though her skills objectively have improved after many afternoon forays into strategy games. More importantly, there aren’t many people she’s able to sit with and focus on her own thoughts without it being considered selfish, and in most cases it’s impossible. Some friends (Naruto, Ino) have to fill the space; others take up too much with just their looming presence (guess). 

Her eyes ping to the cigarette in his hand. “You can step out for that if you want.”

“Nah.” His tone is easy – dare she say relaxed? “We’re in the middle of a game.”

Tries to stifle her snort of disbelief. The crease in her forehead unfolds and almost instantly, she starts tapping two of her fingertips together. No whisper of a sound. He’s already noticed the stack of files she’s brought in and placed on her desk, whatever baggage she’s carried in with her, color-coded and organized. His burdens tend to stay in his own mind, not revealed too easily; not that Shikamaru thinks he knows all the layers underneath her work, her professionalism (most of the time), her smiles, her office door.

Also, he’ll never tell her that he’s obviously already figured out the filing patterns and color scheme because not only is it a matter of sensitive medical information, it’s also an invitation to usher her strength and temper over the threshold. This side of her is kinder. And maybe that’s what she shows to others, something more intimate that explains her behavior and her relationships better than the framework he’s always puzzling over. Ino always regales him with gossip and this and that, and while it tells a story, it doesn’t always make _sense._ Like there’s pieces of the puzzle missing and god, is it confusing without the right ones. It’s pretty much the same dynamic he encounters with nearly all of the women in his life, and he wonders if something’s wrong with him or if it’s just his luck that his closest friends are strange. 

“Wait, have I actually stumped the Great General Shikamaru?” she teases, and now her shoulders relax as she lets a laugh flutter in. 

“What’s on your mind?” he asks. Her laughter weakens. 

“What? Are you sure you don’t have a fever?” 

“Huh?”

“Since when do you ask about people’s feelings now? Is this something your girlfriend taught you?”

He waves his hand like swatting a fly, deflecting. “Oi, oi, I was just—”

“I forgot, you can read everything: Shogi boards, battlefields, your friends,” she jibes. He’s expecting temper, but still, the teasing tone. And as she locks eyes with him, he knows that she knows he’s already figured out what reports are in the stack she brought in. 

His move. _Clack._

A beat. She picks up another board piece and completes her move. _Click._ “My friends are just idiots. Plain and simple. We can’t go anywhere without causing trouble, like you said.” 

“Hey, it’s not your fault they smashed up that bar,” he says, trying to catch her eyes again, the better to read her. “And it’s not the first one we’ve smashed up, truthfully. Lee has a few under his belt.”

“’We,’” she echoes, eyes sweeping over the board. Stock-still, waiting for his move.

She leaves it in the air, an opening, and he wonders if this is knitting a stronger bond or a trigger to upend the table; he runs through. “As you said, I don’t miss much, but somehow you and Kiba slipped by.” 

Eyes closed, she snickers. “Wasn’t much to miss. It wasn’t that long or serious. We’re better friends.”

Eyebrows knitted, she feels like he has more to say. Instead, he picks a piece off the board and completes his turn, fingers lingering for a moment on the wood before removing them. Sakura thinks it’s related to the game, but Shikamaru slips the cigarette into a front pocket on his flak jacket and leans on his elbow. Inhales quickly, a breath caught. Then a long, smooth exhale. “Feelings confuse me.”

With the ghost of a smile, her gaze resuming the sweep of the board in search of an opening, she says, “It’s probably one of the few things that does.”

He wonders, often. Thoughts drifting, soft yarn unraveling in myriad directions and him, following the taut line leading him into the dark. If a decision made here could change the context there, if we make even the slightest deviations from our baseline, because of the swirl of change and chaos and life around us, would we be shades of a different color, or could we emerge as something unrecognizable? He muddles on when and where this routine began, how they converged into this one line and possibility in time, but also at what point they existed in one another’s space and determined they couldn’t be together in one way, only another. He’s mused on it, not with any particular obsession, only a passing wisp while thinking of other people and tasks, the brushing of a leaf at the behest of the wind. Having had this odd, definitive moment with each and every person in his life, he’s unsure how he hasn’t had it sooner, the definitive second in which he knows his place in another being’s narrative.

His security in the story as a pillar, a shadow, a strong figure of support and decidedly out any spotlight, has been known by him forever like something ancient, a mythological tale, written into existence before he was considered human. Not something gauche and blithe like _fate_ or _destiny_, no, not meant for any one purpose or thing, just here, rising to the occasion endlessly. 

“I’m frustrated!” 

She snaps in the silence, eyes flashing. As Shikamaru eases back into his head, into reality, he’s suddenly, oddly glad that her personality seems properly calibrated, back to where it should be. 

(She spaces out more often. Like she loses herself for a moment, lets go of the thread. So does he. It’s the cover on a book he doesn’t want to open.)

“Everyone knows who I am now,” she continues, drumming her fingers on the wood, cognizant of but barely restraining her strength; where her finger pads hit, cracks appear with each sharp tap. 

(Shikamaru wonders if her teammates know.)

“I can’t do my job or buy groceries without people gossiping, but whose fault is it, really? I’m team mom to two emotional, idiotic powerhouses that can barely be contained. I was worried about this. We’re not just sort of famous – we’re this story now, this narrative, this fixture.”

She’s right, and again, Shikamaru doesn’t believe in _destiny_ but perhaps it’s a thread, a road she’s walked for a long time, following the string into the dark.

“I just feel like I’m learning all over again, a weird déjà vu. At the same time,” she sighs, and her hand goes up to tuck her hair behind her ear, out of her face, “I feel like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

Shikamaru blinks twice, wondering how he didn’t see it before. More things he’s missed. The lines in her coat so bright, white, and crisp. Not that she’s ever been sloppy, but someone fastidious has pressed them, someone who obviously handled a thousand until they met the standard. Nothing adorns her fingers, which makes sense as a medic-nin, but the afternoon light bending around the shutters, glancing off the lip of a vase with flowers, now lights up the quiet, unobtrusive earrings usually hidden by her hair. Small, practical studs (and now her hair falls over them again on one side, you wouldn’t ever know) that she probably protested wearing because the Sakura he knows now has a straighter back, a loftier gaze, resists people who tell her she has to do anything or should belong to anyone. But he can see that conversation too, her standing with Sakura waving away all of those noble notions of ownership, roughly pushing her hair back off her ears and telling her she can pierce them in a snap, easy, if she doesn’t want to do them herself. She’s done them a million times, and it can always be fixed it if it looks odd. 

But it won’t, because she never misses. Grinning. That she should do what she wants, because this doesn’t suddenly mean you’re beholden, and _you could bend him to your will if you wanted_, but to stop ascribing a narrative and wear the damn earrings already.

“Your move,” she says, just the hint of impatience. The kind he’s using to hearing, that’s almost missed when it isn’t there. Familiar echoes of his life.

“Hmm,” he intones, now checking that the window is shut and locked, and the door as well. Not sensing anyone outside in the hallway, he says, “Listen.”

One eyebrows pops high, taken aback by the tone.

“I know what happened. I know what they did to you.” This comes out in a rush, and if there’s one thing he’s used to doing, it’s saying all that he needs to before the temper can flare. “And trust me, it’s been handled. We’ll bury those people, for good. I won’t pretend I didn’t read most of those war accounts – I know what happened for the most part. Some parts I don’t, and it’s probably better that way. I’m sure there’s things that aren’t my business.” 

Again, familiar: Eyes hard and jagged, cut of stone. Dangerous territory. Good thing he’s had practice.

“What’s important is that the record’s been set straight.” He absent-mindedly brushes his ear, like swatting away a fly. “He made sure of that for you.”

The quietest gasp, stifled quickly. The walls have ears. Leaning forward, a heavy burden relieved, fist balled up small and tight (and he remembers _she levels mountains with those_) and now she presses it against her heart, a profoundly physical relief. 

Click. 

“That’s checkmate,” he chuckles, rising from his chair. 

“Ah shit,” she snaps. Cringes. “Ugh, this cursing is getting out of control.”

“There are worse vices.” Slipping the cigarette out of his front pocket, points it at her with a languid smile. 

“I know I shouldn’t be surprised you always win, but I don’t know how that one happened. Like you were in a place I wasn’t even looking at. Like a blindspot.” She stands and stretches as tall as she’s able, and a satisfying pop vibrates from the bones in her back. 

“We all have ‘em,” he mutters, the cigarette now in between his lips. Sakura clicks her tongue in disapproval and reaches for her clipboard on top of the paper stack. Tucked underneath the clip is a nondescript, folded paper, void of any label. “There’s some plans to run by you soon. They touch hospital operations and you’ll be the best one to review. Can bring ‘em next week, same time?”

“Always.” She grins, but is already getting lost in her next chart, and Shikamaru takes his leave, closing the door with a satisfying click. 

❦

Temari’s waiting for him at the bottom of the steps, arms folded and eyes rolling at his tardiness. _Women must learn to roll their eyes in the Academy_, he thinks.

“Anything new and exciting?” she asks, and they set off down the street, steps in sync.

“Nah.” Taking a drag, his head swivels to make sure the smoke floats away from her face. “Just thinking.”

“You, thinking. So new and different. About what?”

“Blindspots. Vices. Not sure yet. It’ll come.”

“You’re bizarre sometimes, you know that?”

“It’s just, I notice things, right? But you also notice things.”

“This conversation is so deep I might drown in it.”

“ . . . I mean, I notice ninja things. You notice other things.”

“Other things? Oh . . . you mean _female things_, is that what you’re getting at?”

Shikamaru can hear her pitying patience without even looking at her, and it’s obnoxious. Delightfully so. He won’t pretend it isn’t nice that she can pick up on his musings without needing to explain, waste words. 

She nudges him imperceptibly, so lightly he almost thinks it’s an accidental brush; he focuses on the street ahead of him and sees Sasuke walking in their direction on the opposite side. Despite the faint yellowing from a healing bruise and being tossed in a cell for a couple more days (Kiba in the opposite one, baiting him the whole night through), he looks to be his usual lofty self. Chin high. Very Uchiha-like. Mildly normal, more than he’s ever seen him.

They walk past one another, without rancor, Shikamaru and Temari both nodding and receiving one firm acknowledgement in response.

Temari’s head twists on her neck, making sure he’s well out of earshot before filling Shikamaru in. “Gotta say, that was a great fight. He still got his wrist slapped though. I heard both of their old senseis went down to bail them out, and that Gai somehow found out and ended up there too. Dunno. Idiots.”

“What do you think of him?”

“What do I _think_ of Uchiha Sasuke?” She doesn’t hide the tone of incredulity at the question. “Seriously? He’s crazy. And cute. Just like half your Leaf village friends.” 

“He’s just . . . ” Shikamaru murmurs; Temari doesn’t seem to hear and keeps on going.

“Kid needs some exercise.” She shrugs. “People like him don’t do well when they’re cooped up, aimless. A lot to work through. Too much shit on his mind and not enough healthy outlets. He’s hurting. And he’s used to fighting.”

“How did you know they were—”

“Ino told me, I explained that. Maybe if men listened more, they’d know.”

“Sure, but—”

“Women aren’t that hard to understand, Shikamaru. Not any more than men. Him, and Naruto, and a lot of them, are the type that just end up using their fists to say things they’re too scared to admit. Doesn’t excuse it,” she adds, “it’s just what I see.”

She frowns; he’s staring at her like she’s just shed an entire outer layer of her skin. Something oscillating between confusion and affection. A dusting of red rises in her cheeks. “Knock it off. What’s your issue?”

He shakes his head, letting out another puff of smoke, turning away from her again to make sure it wafts away. Leaning into her, she ignores him for a moment before looping her arm in his, connecting, fitting into him like a jigsaw piece. His eyes soften, so slightly, and he muses on vices, on the idea that everyone has a blindspot, on their complicated lives. 

“Nothing. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”


End file.
